


Beginning at the End

by Kisleth



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action, Angst, Get Together, Hurt/Comfort, LMDs, M/M, Non-powered AU, Unrequited Love, futuristic AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:30:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisleth/pseuds/Kisleth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world’s been a mess since 2030 when HYDRA somehow absorbed all other enemies of SHIELD and any anarchist they could find and convinced them the only way to improve the Earth’s deteriorating state is to murder anyone and everyone who disagreed with them. Out of self-preservation, SHIELD in turn absorbed any military willing to work together to save the innocents and defeat the now-common enemy.</p><p>Inter-continental travel is currently impossible, but communications are greater than ever. They can all work together and (even though they’ve already been at this for several years) defeat the hostiles and bring the Earth back to (relative) peace.</p><p>It’s hard work, but SHIELD has some of the best partnered pairs of agents to change the tides to their favor. This is just part of the story of Clint Barton and Phil Coulson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beginning at the End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sian1359](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian1359/gifts).



> I can't believe I wrote this much. I can't believe I finished on time. I can't believe how amazingly hard my wonderful beta, WinterMute, worked on this fic with me. I owe them absolutely everything. Thank you so much, darling, you really helped me make this fic work.
> 
> As for the prompts and prompter, I really hope I wrote something that fit in those lines? I tried for the following: Hurt/Comfort, Action/Adventure (kinda), Clever AUs (I hope), Avengers assembling to fight something (and SHIELD being helpful).
> 
> SHIELD definitely was helpful and pulled their weight in this fic. Sian, I hope this is just what you were hoping for, if not more. 
> 
> Also, this is only the beginning. Please stick around because I'll be writing short-ish sequels to focus on the others (and more Clint and Phil because I can't resist).
> 
> [I was editing this as it was posted. Word count jumped from 12,821 to it's current number. Edit finished 1-6-14 at 1:45EST]

Clint draws the grip back on the string until the pulsing electric hum whispers in his ear. Guns had come a long way in becoming quieter, especially after plasma rounds had been introduced, but nothing can compare to his bow. Shooting live pulses of electricity? And taking nonlethal shots depending on what settings he used? There are plenty of perks in having a favored weapon (no matter how archaic) that the higher ups have okayed for use in the field. It may have taken longer than he liked to prove its worth, but they finally admitted that he was right.

The way things are going, though, he won’t have to worry about what the higher ups think for very much longer. His muscles burn and sing with the strain of keeping his weapon drawn but he can’t come out of his cover until the shooting stops—or at least slows. He watches rounds light up the tarmac in the soft glow of molten heat. It takes only a second for the hiss to escape as the center eats through the metal casing and into the tar. He knows it won’t be stopping until either it cools, or someone pours a base on it. Get shot with one of those and you’re pretty much a goner. His partner merely got nicked by a casing a few years back and Coulson still has a dent on the outside of his right calf.

Clint narrows his eyes and forces himself to focus just in time for the din to come to a lull. He spins on his heel, bringing the bow up to bear as he steps out from behind his cover. He hardly needs to look, the men and women haven’t moved that much from the positions he'd last seen them in. He looses the string and with a crackling hiss, a shot fires from the bow toward his target. They go down with a sharp jerk, but he’s already pulling back and aiming again. Although he can't see some of his team members at the moment, he has their statuses and positions fed to him through his built-in communications chip. Sitwell is their main set of off-ground eyes, but everyone else adds in when they can to paint the picture of this skirmish.

He shoots people down or sometimes shoots their weapons out of their hands if they aren’t completely in his line of sight. He knows it’ll only frustrate them, but occasionally he’s lucky and has destroyed the weapon. The more he disarms, the more they will have to come out of hiding to grab a new one or risk being shot down by someone in another position. Anyone he disarms, he relates their position over the comm.

“Barton, on your six!” Coulson barks into his ear. It’s like Phil’s over right over his shoulder when Clint can see him about a hundred yards off. Clint spins without so much as a word and catches a woman who had been about to get the drop on him in the throat with the arm of his bow. He sneers down at her as he pushes hard to drive her down onto her knees. As if he would be taken down when he has the best team ever watching his back. He shoves her back so he can draw as she hacks and tries to catch her breath. He shoots her in the shoulder for good measure, the hiss and crackle of electricity paralyzing her. He darts away in a bid to find cover, shooting three more people down as he goes. He half-dives and slides on his knees (thankfully padded for this very reason) when he gets close enough to a large chunk of rebar and cement; it probably was once part of one of the dilapidated buildings around them.

“Sitwell, Sector Three is almost clear." Clint does a quick recount of who he'd seen left over and he could probably clear the area in a few minutes (if no one shoots at him). "Ready clean up. I’ll give the all—” The crack of the shot echoes around him and he freezes. It’s slower than usual and the sound reverberates in his ears so much that the chip at the base of his skull flares hot enough to hurt. And isn’t it funny that that’s the pain his brain focuses on? At least at first.

A slow bloom of fire in his chest freezes his body like ice. As his brain registers the opposing combination everything zooms into sharp, painful relief. He can’t breathe, his lungs won’t respond despite how much he struggles to get them to work. He can’t close his eyes. They're locked wide open and searching for something... all they find is Coulson. Coulson, with his rifle hooked over his shoulder. Coulson, sprinting toward him dead on even as he’s fired at. Coulson, screaming… He can’t hear it over the ringing in his ears.

Clint doesn’t dare look down. Seeing a wound has always makes it seem like it hurt more. Instead, he reaches up to the back of his neck even as his knees begin to buckle. He reaches for the chip, which had been nestled under the skin of his nape ever since he’d been initiated into SHIELD. He can feel the badly blistered skin, his chip has burnt out and he feels like he’s deaf and the world is deaf and blind to him.

His hands reach down to clutch where he was shot as gravel bites into his knees. His fingertips graze the molten something that’s eating through his sternum as his lids grow ever heavier. It bites at his fingertips now and the ringing in his ears is lessening enough to hear Coulson’s voice crack as he screams, “Barton!” He covers the wound. His mind is telling him to hide it from Phil and he does it unflinchingly, even as the plasma starts to eat at the palm pressed against his wound.

The world is increasingly fuzzy and grey at the edges, and Clint closes his eyes to stop everything from spinning. Despite the plasma round that he knows is eating away at his insides (and his fingers and his palm as he hasn’t moved his hands at all), he remains upright until Coulson skitters over gravel to settle behind the cover where Clint fights from falling completely to the earth.

Gentle, so gentle, hands slip around him. They avoid the entry and exit wound. (He’s pretty sure the round didn’t exit, but it ate through him enough that there is a hole on either side that he can feel.) One cradles his shoulders and the other is just firm enough on his waist that he can carefully guide him into a more comfortable position. Clint slumps into Coulson’s embrace and relief washes over him so suddenly that even though his body is drawn tight with pain, he manages to relax. It’s a struggle, but he opens his eyes to watch the older man’s face. “C’son,” he grits out through the agony. Talking uses air, which he isn't getting much of (or maybe he has too much, since he's pretty sure the plasma is trying to open up one of his lungs).

He feels more than hears the shuddering, gasp-sob through Coulson’s chest. “Don’t talk,” the rumbling purr of his voice is so soothing that his eyes drift shut again. “Barton.” His eyebrow twitches in response. “Barton, open your eyes.” It’s sharp, an order from his partner. He’s trying, honestly, but he’s just so drained that he wants to sleep. With his eyes closed, things hurt just the tiniest bit less. “ _Clint_.” That sounds like begging and Coulson never begs. Clint forces his eyes open and his vision swims. “Hold on, please… please, hold on. Med evac is coming. You’re… you’re going to be fine.”

The corner of Clint’s mouth twitches a little even as he feels his breath slowing to a near halt. He can’t force himself to breathe and he knows that it’s only moments until the plasma eats away his lungs and heart and everything else. “N-n’ver knew...” he convulses as he fights to breathe, “Fury… made y’such a good… liar.”

He slowly slides the back of his hand up Phil’s chest to grasp the neck of his tac vest as hard as he can—which isn’t much at all. “Stay?” The only thing keeping his hand there is how he's tangled his index finger through a D-ring.

“Of course,” Coulson jerks a little as a hard sob escapes him. Tears drop to Clint’s face and they’re blissfully cool. Soothing. His eyes close again and imagines rain.

“S’glad ‘s you.” He turns his face into Coulson’s chest and his partner cradles him closer until he can press his face into the crook of the man’s neck. His skin is sweaty, but clammy cool in his panic. Clint can feel the grit of dirt under his forehead. “Want y’to be the las’...”

“No, no don’t say that. You’re going to…” Clint tightens his grip and uses the last of his strength to haul himself up and press a kiss to a tear-streaked cheek. He's trembling so hard that his lips just barely gaze the stubbled skin. A tear slips into his mouth and a sweet salt explodes over his tongue. The last thing he'll probably ever taste.

“Still… still need ta learn…” Clint sags back into his arms, his strength almost completely gone, “when t’lie.” He can’t pull in enough air, and frankly he’s shocked that he’s awake through all the pain, although maybe most of his pain receptors have just been cooked out of him at this point. He lays in wait of the dark drag down and just like when he was shot, it’s all too slow.

He hates it, to be honest. He’d rather be dead than to have to listen as Coulson screams at the med team. He feels like he’s floating now, and he thinks that, maybe, the med team has taken him out of Coulson’s arms. But he knows that they know. It’s too late to save him.

Finally, the blackness encompasses him and he sinks into it just like he did Coulson’s arms.

* * *

Clint wakes slowly. Mind so muddled that the world feels like it’s spinning although he remains motionless, he regrets even thinking about opening his eyes. He steals his nerves before cracking an eye open to test his reaction to the brightness of the room. “Fuck,” he grits out. He doesn’t even know why or how he’s here.

Here happens to be in his barracks. Last thing he knew, he’d been fighting with his team. He closes his eyes again and tries to remember but all that comes is a stretch of blankness. He doesn’t even have a headache or whatever it was that seemed so popularly cliche to get in the movies when the stars had amnesia. It doesn’t stop him from trying even harder, his concentration only faltering when there’s a knock on his door. “H’lo?” His voice rasps from disuse.

Coulson comes in, and he looks as white as a sheet.

“Shit, Coulson.” The man jumps as if he weren’t expecting Clint to say anything. His eyes lift from the floor and lock onto Clint almost too hard. “Y’look like shit. The fuck happened out there?” He's still drawing a blank and it bothers him.

His partner takes a shaky breath. It disconcerts him to see the other man seem so unsettled. It puts Clint on edge and he sits up as the man steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. He walks over to Clint’s bed and he can see when Phil grits his teeth because there's a tick in his jaw. He partner takes a slow breath. “You were shot.” Phil's voice cracks on the last word. Clint’s eyes widen and he just barely stops him jaw from dropping. Surely he’d be in a fuckton more pain if he had been shot? If not dead?

He doesn’t quite get to say “you’re shitting me” because the man continues. “The shell was a dud, mostly. It bruised you pretty badly and somehow burnt out your communications chip. Your footage of the skirmish was lost.” Coulson stops and swallows a few times. “Tony had you kept under until a new chip could be installed and then we let your body adjust to it under a medically induced coma. It’s been nearly a month.”

God, a whole month? If Clint didn’t trust SHIELD as much as he did, he would probably have a lot more questions about why he’s missing so much time and why he’d been kept down and out of the action. It even gets more suspicious when Clint notices that he doesn’t have an IV of any kind, nor a catheter. There is always the possibility that—because he was in a chip-controlled coma—they might have removed them before setting him up here and allowing him to come out of his coma. He doesn't bother to look for needle marks just yet.

He does, however, run his fingers over the back of his neck, the touch light in case the operation site is still sensitive. Just a twinge and prickle is all he feels from it, nothing too bad. He does feel the shiny-smooth skin of healed burns around the new chip. “Has it been quiet on the front?” It’s practically all out war everywhere these days, but the “front” is the areas around any of SHIELD’s bases, whether they are for operations or civilian protection (and man, have those grown exponentially over the last decade).

“It’s been quiet without you,” it’s a jumbled mess between a joke and what sounds to be heartbreak. Clint's chest clenches and he wants to hug Phil.

Clint reaches out for Coulson’s hand and grasps it hard enoughhe feels his knuckles creak. The shock on his partner’s face almost hurts, but he carries on. “Coul… Phil.” He clears his throat as it tightens. He won’t let himself get stuck on the look on Coulson’s face, as if he didn’t believe Clint would be able to touch him. Forcing himself back on track, he clears his throat again, softer. They are going to talk about this, they almost had before. The hand in his starts to tremble and it, frankly, scares him. “What I… what I said before all this…”

“Clint—” Phil chokes out.

“I meant it,” Clint butts in because Phil needs to understand. He puts all the sincerity he can into his voice. “I _mean_ it. With the world falling around us constantly…” he trails off and moves to stand, only to have Phil drop to the bed like his legs can’t support him anymore. “We fucking deserve _this_.” He squeezes the limp hand in his. “Don’t you think? For all the _shit_ the world’s given us, we deserve this chance to be happy.”

A faint, broken noise escapes Phil’s lips and Clint can’t hold himself back any longer. He tugs on Phil’s hand as he raises the other to his partner's cheek. Heartbeats take an eternity as he slots their mouths together. He half expects to get smacked or something because while Phil had never said no to his flirting and advances, he’s still being presumptuous.

The moment Phil gives in and starts to kiss back makes his heart swell with hope but it’s short lived. The older man pulls back and clears his throat. His eyes look everywhere but Clint for a few seconds, darting around to find something to focus on. Clint opens his mouth to say something when Phil shifts back a little more. His eyebrows pinch and before he can bolster his courage to say anything, Phil clears his throat, mumbles “excuse me”, and leaves.

“Guess that’s a ‘no’ to happiness then,” Clint ignores the crack in his voice as much as he does the prickle of tears. He had been so good at not getting his hopes up. Before he met Phil he was used to guarding his heart and keeping it close to his chest. Any time he hadn’t, people just walked all over him and made sure to stomp on it on their way by. He’d finally come out of his shell over years of partnership (and eventually friendship) just for… this. “Fuck.”

* * *

_Phil, I’ve been thinking…_

Clint’s words raise to the forefront of Phil's mind unbidden as he retreats from Clint's room. He hates that he’s running away but he has no choice. If he’d stayed he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself. And no matter what, he can’t have what Clint’s asking for. He wants to, of course, with every fiber of his being but he knows why he can’t and… his throat closes up on him and he has to duck into an alcove lest he lose control and start to cry. Out of all the most recent memories Clint forgot, he has to remember that conversation.

He leans against the cold cinder block wall behind him and wraps an arm around himself in a hug that doesn’t provide any comfort. His free hand rises to press against his forehead just above his eyes. It shakes and his nails scratch against his skin as fingers curl into a fist in attempt to still himself. His next breath isn’t any steadier but at least it’s quiet.

_...we’ve been close for, like, years now. Real close, I’d like to think, as of late. And I just wanted to say…_

No, no stop it. Stop right there because this is the worst path to go down right now. He can’t do this here. If he does, he’ll turn back to Clint’s room and change his mind. Damn the consequences. And yet. And yet Phil knows that going back to Clint right now would be a bigger heart break than when Clint...

With a grit of his teeth so hard they squeak, he shoves himself away from the wall and walks briskly down the hall. Locking himself in his office and doing every bit of paperwork he owes plus some he doesn’t sounds like the best idea right now. It’s equally mind numbing and mind consuming and is just what he needs to forget about the hole that rips larger with every step away from Clint he takes.

Relief sinks into Phil’s bones when he shuts and locks the door behind him. His back presses into the bolted metal and he groans softly. A headache is already coming on, he can feel it. He closes his eyes and is suddenly bombarded with Clint’s face. Worried eyebrows, a timid stance, and sad but hopeful eyes are unwelcome and too painful as words come to mind.

_I love you._

The sob comes unbidden from Phil’s throat. He squeezes his eyes tighter and sags down the door. Each bolt scrapes at his back as he sinks to the floor.

_Fuck, I’ve been in love with you so long I don’t remember what it was like to not… you know? And I don’t want to remember before that, ‘cause everything was going to shit. My life was shit before you, Phil._

This. This is torture. His brain must be a glutton for punishment. “Stop it,” he whispers. His knees are tucked up near his face, his elbows on his knees. He hits both sides of his head with the heels of his palms to try to get the memory out of his head.

_And I think you feel the same. Ish. Maybe a little? And if… if you do, I think we should give this a try._

Phil groans and tucks his face into his knees. He grips the back of his neck and squeezes, wishing he could just black out right now because standing to get to that paperwork seems like the greatest challenge in his life.

_We don’t know if we’ll still be around tomorrow, and I just really want to see… to see if “us” could be as great as I think we could be._

Phil swallows a few times but his throat was too tight. He couldn’t breathe no matter how hard he tried. Just tiny breaths that hardly did anything seemed to get through. His vision grays at the edges and Phil hates himself for having a panic attack over something like this. A hiccup shakes him and he curls into himself more, trying to control himself.

_Don’t you?_

“I do,” Phil croaks out. But he’s too late. He’s much too late. Because after Clint asked the klaxon went off and they had to run out to get into position. And then everything had changed so fast and before Phil knew it he was sprinting out into the open and enemy fire because Clint had been hit and was going down. And like hell Phil would let the man he was too afraid to say that he loved die alone.

Phil loses time and doesn’t know how long he sits there, trying to breathe and not cry. (His eyes sting and he has a headache and his nose gets a little stuffy, but his cheeks stay completely dry.) He doesn’t check the clock when he manages to drag himself to his desk and sit either. He doesn’t want to know. He reaches for the closest stack to him with shaking hands and does nothing but pick up a ball-point.

The scent of ink calms him just enough that his handwriting is as flawless as usual. He isn’t completely still, however. His other hand still trembles, and his leg jiggles restlessly. He’ll power through them. He has to. He can’t leave until he returns to normal and can hide behind his professional mask so well that… that _Clint_ won’t know anything is wrong. He can’t be any other way but the emotionless SHIELD android that junior agents believe him to be.

The irony is not lost on him.

* * *

A click, followed by two short beeps sounds in Clint’s left ear. It’s enough to get him to pause in drawing his bow, relaxing his draw. He lowers his arms and waits for the message. “Agents, you are to report to Conference room B for immediate briefing.” Another two beeps signal the end of the message. It is definitely an important message if Fury himself is the one sending it. He packs up his bow and brings it with him, just in case they need to go out immediately.

The world’s been a mess for nearly eight years since HYDRA somehow absorbed all other enemies of SHIELD and any anarchist they could find. The organization convinced them all that the only way to improve the Earth’s deteriorating state was to murder anyone and everyone who disagreed with them. Out of self-preservation, SHIELD in turn absorbed any military willing to work together to save the innocents and defeat the now-common enemy.

Inter-continental travel is no longer possible, but communications are greater than ever. It's all thanks to the technological advances in neural circuitry made by several corporations, including (and at the forefront) Stark Industries. The communications chip they developed along with the advances in weaponry is giving them the ability to finally work together, defeat the enemy, and bring the world back to (relative) peace.

It’s been a long, hard road, but the good guys are finally getting their break, eliminating some of the major hostile forces around the world. If the current rate of progression continues as it is, they might be able to stop fighting and start rebuilding in the next six years.

Clint turns down the hall and is quickly joined by Thor. “Greetings, Hawkeyed One.” His joviality is conveyed in his volume, but Clint is used to it and chuckles instead of wincing.

“Thor,” he nods to the man. He’s huge, easily half a foot taller than Clint. Maybe more. His arms are almost as thick as Clint’s thigh, and pieces of art. It’s technology Tony had actually drooled over as soon as he met him, to be honest. Each arm from the wrist up to his shoulders, and across shoulder blades to connect in the back, is covered with a tattooed circuitry that allows the man to manipulate electricity and shoot it through the large hammer he wields.

Thor’s told him all about the Nordic lore that is included within the entwined shapes. The famous hammer, Mjolnir, is between his shoulders and connects the two sleeves (he’s named his own hammer for it). He has Odin’s ravens (Huginn and Muninn) over the balls of his shoulders, and the World Tree—Yggdrasil—cuffs each wrist, seamless if he places his arms together. He has Fenrir and Jörmungandr and Sleipnir over his left bicep as well as other famous creatures of lore along the following forearm. His right arm is a depiction of the nine realms, each with their names in runes. Each palm has a Nordic interpretation of the SHIELD emblem, connected to his other tattoos by a braided knot to his wrists to channel the electricity to his hammer.

“It is good to see you on your feet, we have been worried for our Shield-brother.” Clint’s prepared for the strong clap of Thor’s hand on his shoulder but it’s surprisingly gentle and doesn’t nearly knock him off his feet like they usually do. Although he feels completely fine, he’s grateful for the lighter treatment. “Do you know why we have been called upon?”

“Not yet, man.” He hears a click and a different set of beeps and Tony’s muttering about he’ll be there after he finishes something but before he completes his sentence, Bruce is promising to drag him there if he needs to in the background. Natasha signs on to the channel but doesn’t say anything. Her silence alone gets Tony to agree to moving that very second.

Thor and Clint share a companionable chuckle as they get to the stairwell. He hops up onto the railing to slide down to the next landing, something Thor hasn’t been able to manage with wobbling dangerously. “One day, Sparky,” Clint says, patting Thor on the back as they step out onto the floor.

It’s only about a minute before they arrive at the correct conference room. Natasha and Steve, another partnered pair like Phil and him, are already there, talking lowly. They’re sweaty and what few bruises they have are fading away under Clint’s gaze. Sparring then. Clint sits next to Nat and completely expects it when she turns to him just enough to use his lap as a leg rest. She continues talking to Steve, but Clint doesn’t listen in. Thor doesn’t sit, but walks over to the only window, watching the rain pour from the sky.

Sitwell arrives next, talking with Rhodey and Bucky. Clint just closes his eyes and lets their voices wash over him, not really paying attention to the words, other than when Steve and Natasha join the conversation with them. It’s all just base “politics” (read: gossip) as far as he’s concerned.

Tony and Bruce arrive with Coulson on their tail. “Sugarlump!” Tony calls holds his arms out as he walks over to Rhodey. He doesn’t seem to blink an eye when the man ignores him almost completely.

“Tony.” Is all Rhodey gives him.

Tony tries for Bucky next, “Buckyboo?”

“Stark,” the man grits back.

“All the love and time I put into that arm of yours, and you still can’t call me ‘Tony’.” The man looks like he’s seconds away from a dramatic gesture when Natasha snorts and rolls her eyes. Tony looks a little wounded but Coulson reins everyone in by shutting the door and walking to the head of the table.

“Where’s Fury?” Steve asks as he looks around the room. Everyone who isn’t seated has started to take their own places to give Coulson their full attention.

“In a meeting with the Council.” Coulson replies, dryly. No one in this room really enjoyed the stuffed shirts who relaxed in their private and hidden compounds where they were safe from the attacks. He taps at the table twice and data comes up, maps and other intelligence that SHIELD had gathered. “Intel has it that HYDRA is planning an attack on our Weapons and Intelligence base in La Paz, Mexico. It appears that they’re making a temporary base on Isla San Jose.”

He pulls up both images and slides them down the table toward the rest of them. “They are armed with the EMP grenades we’ve heard of them testing five months ago. They raided another facility, although it was a dummy one, complete with falsified data. But the grenades were still effective in taking down the Life Model Decoys we had on site.” Coulson and Sitwell share a look and something about it unsettles Clint. He shifts in his chair and pulls the overhead image of their base toward him as Natasha passes it.

“If they have EMP ‘nades…” Clint looks over to Bruce, who has slumped a little more into his seat.

“Then I’m out of this run.” Bruce says calmly. “I assume you want us to go in and replace the LMDs on site to protect the base and lessen the property damage.”

“Essentially. But you’re two sides of a very effective coin, Dr. Banner. We might not be able to use your serum and exosuit because one blast could result in bodily harm, but you can certainly help over the comms.” It’s group-wide knowledge how the serum Banner injects himself with is only half powered by strong emotion. The exosuit also runs on the same energy the LMDs do. If the EMP grenade powers it down, Bruce could hurt himself as he tries to exert the energy and strength he doesn’t have to move the suit.

“We’re going to be running two different ops side by side.” He taps the table in front of him again and then shoots files in front of each person, every one varying due to their position or weapon preference. “I’ll be leading the op on Isla San Jose. Romanov and Barton? You’ll be working together as our infiltration team. Sitwell will be leading the op in La Paz with Banner as second. There is more ground to watch and more people to keep an eye on. Rogers, you’ll be partnered with Barnes for this round, you’ll be point and sniper. We need your eyes, Barnes, to give Banner and Sitwell updates on everything going down that they can’t see. Watch each others backs as well as you can while taking down as many members of HYDRA as you can. Lethal force is allowed.” He turns to the other side of the table.

“Stark, Rhodes, you’ll be our air team. Stay mobile and within view. You’ll also be emergency backup for Barton and Romanov. Stark, if we find what we’re looking for, we’ll bring some back for study, the rest are to be safely disarmed. Thor, you’re the power player. You can easily hit numerous targets and can, frankly, handle a bit of a beating. Cull the hordes.” The corner of his mouth twists in almost a smile.

Sitwell nods and looks to everyone else. “Gear up, we’re still without flight capabilities. It’s a 53 hour drive if we can manage to find a ferry and the roads are not in disrepair.”

“Or blockaded by HYDRA and their sympathizers,” Steve adds. He’d gone out to supplement Base 34 in August and had run into at least three different stops and had no backup. From then on, Natasha always made sure to go with him, even if a base only needed one extra player.

“Right.” Coulson agrees. “We’ll be going in three vehicles. Banner, Sitwell, and Thor will leave first for La Paz, looking like a routine sweep and check-up. There was one scheduled for within the week anyway, we’re just switching up the members for all they know. Barton, Romanov, and I will leave a half hour after that for Isla San Jose. The rest of you will follow up with a van.”

The group dissipates to their respective corners of the base to gather their weapons, tools, armor, and anything else they think they might need. They’ve all mastered this to the point that it’s a fine art and the first car leaves within ten minutes. Clint says linked into the comm channel, Phil talking to the group in the car relaying intelligence to them, scrolling through his tablet as he does.

Natasha takes the first shift of driving.

* * *

If Clint’s gaze could actually be hot, the side of Phil’s face would have turned pink with it. It’s the sixth hour of their drive and Clint hasn’t looked away since he first settled in behind Natasha and threw his legs up onto the seat. He doesn’t care that the armrest on the door has been digging into his back for hours, not when all his focus is on the man in the passenger seat.

In the past, Phil’s… Coulson’s professionalism was definitely a turn on that he flirted with him over. But now? Now every “Barton” grated on him, making him almost flinch with the cool, flat tone. It reminded Clint of the last time he’d been tortured for information before his team rescued him. He’s hard pressed to figure out which really hurt worse.

Coulson hadn’t addressed him solely as “Barton” for years. They’ve been friends, and inching closer, for all that time and the idea that Phil no longer considers them friends really hurts. And if that alone wasn’t bad enough, Natasha kept shooting him “Are you okay?” and “Want me to talk to him?” looks via the rearview mirror. He appreciates the gesture but he’d rather there not be a rift between them and their handler for the upcoming mission.

Not that he doubts his or Natasha’s ability to remain professional and get the job done. They’re already doing that in the car, otherwise Clint doesn’t doubt that Natasha would be giving Coulson an earful right this very moment. Clint’s grateful that she asked before charging ahead. (Doing so is not commonly in her nature, but Natasha and Clint have self-admitted soft spots for each other.)

Clint blinks slowly and finally Coulson moves. He looks as if he’s about to turn toward Clint to tell him to cut it out but instead he turns away. Not just his head, but Phil shifts to turn his entire body away from Clint. His throat tightens and Clint slinks down in his seat, resting the back of his skull where the window meets the door. As if he wasn’t already feeling like shit, Coulson’s blatant ignoring really strikes at his heart.

It’s clear that the man would rather pretend Clint didn’t exist so he wouldn’t have to deal with his feelings for him. It wasn’t like this was all a walk in the park for Clint either. It is one thing to get turned down, it’s completely another when the person you’re in love with responds positively one moment and then completely rejects you and your friendship only to top it off by running away.

Not for the first time, Clint really wishes that some of the other members of his team could infiltrate as well as he or Natasha. He would have gladly switched places with any of them. Let them go to the tiny island and stick their noses into things while Clint went off to La Paz and kicked some ass. He’s sure it would have been a lot more enjoyable.

Slumping lower in his seat, Clint lets his negative thoughts drag him down as the scenery passes them by. He’s only too glad when it’s his turn to drive and everyone rotates, making Natasha be his passenger as Phil slips into the back. The archer focuses on the road and ignores the man ignoring him.

It’s going to be a long drive.

* * *

It’s so humid that Clint has no hope in having any dry clothing for the entirety of their stay. He’d usually be grumpier about it but he can’t for one thing. Schadenfreude. Hearing Tony swear and spit over how all this sweat is going to mess with his suit’s circuits—which it won’t because it’s air conditioned and built to withstand complete submersion after the Hudson River Incident—is making this all the more bearable. Natasha’s dry remark that she hopes Stark passes out from the smell of his own sweat makes him choke on his spit.

After all the shit he’d been focusing on (too much) during their (too long) drive, Clint honestly hadn’t been expecting to laugh.

Clint is checking on sight lines to the building they were about to infiltrate. There aren’t really any security cameras that worked in the area, so he was also installing the few Tony had thought to pack. Coulson and Natasha were running through protocol to get the systems properly hooked up at their new base of operations while listening to the other team get the LMDs out and to a secured area. All while trying not to catch the attention of anyone possibly watching.

The underground passage was far enough away that Steve had dropped off part of the party there, along with most of the equipment. They would walk the rest of the way to the base while he and Bucky had continued on. Someone would have to show up as the “relief” for the LMDs inside. A changing of the guards, so to speak. It’s their only option to hide how many people are actually going to be at the base, currently. So far, so good. Steve reports a lack of issues and interruptions.

“All cams in place,” Clint murmurs, knowing that the communications chip will pick it up easily.

“Confirmed, Barton.” Coulson responds. “All cams live and in focus. Rendezvous with Romanov in five at start point.”

Things go eerily well on Clint’s side of things. Natasha's and his teamwork is as seamless as if they had been partners for years and they start to take the few people around the makeshift base down quickly and quietly. As they turn a corner, Clint spots someone and bows to his temporary partner to allow her to go first. Natasha runs and throws herself at them, choking them out with her thighs as she balances herself there and squeezes. As they start to drop, she reaches down with her hands to snap their neck.

“Really.” Clint hisses. Natasha simply raises an eyebrow at him and drops the body to the ground quietly. “You had to snap his neck?” The eyebrow goes higher. He sighs exasperatedly as the woman untangles herself with ease and stands, dusting invisible dirt off her clothing. “Lemme guess, I get to hide the body.” The feral grin makes him groan softly. Of course she’s going to make him do the grunt work.

He rolls his eyes at her but drags the body toward a closet. Or, at least, to what he thought was a closet. He swears softly when he sees what’s inside. “Bingo.” He marks the door with a tiny scratch with a knife by the handle and finds a different room to hide the body in. They review the map Natasha has and decide to split up to cover the hallways in two separate directions that meet up later on.

Coulson okays the move and they split off. Clint climbs up into the open beams above them as soon as he can to crawl along. He’d rather literally get the drop on someone than have to try to sneak up in plain sight. Natasha might have the style to just waltz in and take everyone down without messing up her hair, but Clint isn’t the hand-to-hand genius that she is and he’s willing to admit it.

Just as he thinks about how he’d drop onto someone below him, he gets his chance. He grips the rafter and swings down feet first. He grins as his boot connects with the back of the man’s skull, sending him face first into a nearby wall. “Boot to the head, nyah, nyah,” he sings under his breath. He grips the man’s shaggy hair and pulls his head back. Grabbing his chin, he settles his grip and twists sharply.

“My corridor is clear,” Natasha’s voice comes over the comm chip. “Clint?”

“Still on my way. Go on ahead?” He pauses to wait for Coulson’s respond. His word is final after receiving intel from all agents in the field. He agrees after a pause. “Don’t worry about saving any for me, ‘Tash.” Clint flattens himself against a wall, there is a hall coming up and he wants to minimize the chance of being seen.

“Never planned on it, Clint.” Natasha sounds like the cat who ate the canary and he just knows that she has someone new in her sights. He doesn’t tell her to be careful because he doesn’t need to. She already knows, even though they can’t share the meaningful look to convey it.

Clint slinks up to the corridor and, surprisingly, there is no one there. He sighs and tells Coulson it’s all clear before heading down it silently. He pulls a knife out as he goes longer without coming onto someone. Luck would have him stuck with more than one person at once, and it’s increasingly harder to take people down with just your hands when the number gets larger.

“Coulson, I think this is a dead end. I’m doubling ba—” Clint’s sentence is cut off as a pinless grenade rolls over the floor toward him and there is a blinding flash of light.

* * *

It’s not clear how much time has passed since everything faded, but he’s sure he’s in the La Paz base. Tony is sitting next to him with three rolling hospital tables around him with tools and various pieces spread out over them. Pieces of paper are under them with labels and notes for each piece.

It takes a few tries to raise the effort, but finally Clint tries to speak. “How did I…?” The whole question never makes it out through his blinding headache. He closes his eyes again because it hurts a lot less that way. Tony lightly pats him on the shoulder and it feels awkward where the screwdriver still in his hand pokes him but he’ll accept it.

“Let’s just say,” Clint opens his eyes just in time to catch the twitch of a quickly smothered grin, “there was a bit more grenade in the EMP-to-’nade ratio.” He sets down the tools, makes a few more notes, and then turns to Clint to give the archer his (mostly) full attention. “It’s impressive how you survived with minimal injuries. I had to video call a doctor—not easy way out here—to properly fix you up. Remind me later to throw up from stitching your head.”

“Go puke.” Clint mutters. He’s really wishing for the company of just about anyone but Tony right now, but considering that they’re in La Paz, they all must be busy. They’re fighting a fight he should be a part of right now, but he’s laying on a bed with a sensor on his fingertip and throat and forehead. He peels them all off and moves to sit up as the machines screech and make Tony cringe.

Clint notes how torn he looks between shutting the machine up and getting Clint to lay back down. After a second, Tony picks the easier option and shuts up the wailing machines. “Whoa, hey, no.” Tony says, holding both hands up in a “stop”. Clint snorts and ignores him, bracing his hands on the side of the bed as his world swirls in front of him for a moment. “You are in no shape to be doing anything, Barton. Lay back down.”

“Not the boss of me,” Clint hisses. His body is heavily protesting but he needs to be useful, especially after getting knocked down so fast. He snorts when Tony growls at him. “Whatcha gonna do? Tattle?”

Tony arches an eyebrow and twitches his head a little. “Coulson, Barton’s awake and trying to get up.”

It’s not just Coulson who starts arguing in his ear. Natasha and Steve are there too, and he thinks he hears Bucky and Rhodey but Thor chimes in very loudly and it drowns most of them out. It’s such a barrage of noise that they both wince and Tony looks the slightest bit sympathetic.

“Stark,” Coulson is all business after everyone quiets down. “I give you permission to taser Barton if he so much as stands.”

Clint mouths, “traitor,” and slumps back onto the bed. Being tased is far from pleasant and he already feels awful. After a moment, he carefully shifts himself into a more comfortable position and once he’s settled, Tony shoves a tablet under his nose. He jerks back a bit and looks up, forehead wrinkled in confusion.

“Take it. Participate by being another pair of eyes.” The display has one camera view blown up and the others around the edges, able to be switched with a tap. “It’s not as good as you out there, but it’s something.” Tony reaches out for his suit and it starts to build around him. “Stay,” Tony’s voice is uncharacteristically gentle, “let us do the dirty work. Everyone deserves a break every now and again.”

“Thanks…” Clint watches Tony leave, the armor half on and the other half flying after him. He turns his gaze down to the tablet and switched cameras to check out where Natasha is. After her, he checks Steve, then Bucky, and so on. He checks up on every single person he has visually, and then asks after those he can’t see. He brings up a map of the area and figures out every line of sight for Bucky to use as the group’s sniper, he helps lead them to the higher ground and sooner, rather than later, they win.

Clint celebrates by falling asleep.

* * *

“Stark, I need to know how it happened.” Because these last three months have been grating on his ability to keep the calm and bland face that has helped in countless situations in keeping others calm. If he can’t stay collected and be the rock the teams needs him to be it’s going to seriously mess with the others who depend on him. He already has that kind of pressure on him, and waiting for Tony to figure this mess out is making it worse.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Agent.” Tony scrubs his hands through his hair, re-mussing the already mussed locks. His skin is a bit paler than usual due to the amount of time he’d been awake and on the computers. “JARVIS and I have been busting literal and digital ass over this and we’re no closer than before.” It's obvious in the man's body language that the whole idea of not understanding this is an affront to him and his intelligence.

“We have theories, Agent Coulson,” JARVIS says, but then the AI hesitates in a way that unsettles the man. “But… there is no conclusive data.”

Tony squirms at the unrestrained emotions on Phil’s face. If not figuring this out is getting to him, the agent’s reactions to it all is making it worse. “H—” Tony bites his tongue and starts again, more cautious about his word selection. No need to aggravate Coulson’s un-Coulson-ness into something worse. “It’s just… a glitch. Over-shared information because something tweaked the parameters of the upload.”

Coulson nods solemnly, staring at the dirty floor of Tony’s work space. Usually the mess would get more of a reaction out of him, but as of late the luxury of being and staying clean has dwindled. Everyone does what they can with their limited resources, he knows that. But it had always bothered him enough to teasingly scold Stark about it. Right now, too much is weighing on him and he can’t bring up the normal jokes. “Keep trying.”

The corner of Stark’s mouth twitches and he gives Phil a surprisingly smart salute. “Haven’t stopped.”

Before anything more can be said, Steve’s sequence sounds in their ears. “Emergency evac of the local civilian base. Smoke bombs, we’re not sure if it’s a prank or something more serious. Barton’s already on site.” The both acknowledge and prepare to move out.

“Agent,” Tony says, off comm for the man’s benefit, “I’ll throw my one thousand and ten percent into this, but you’ve got to talk to Clint.” He isn’t going for the normal off-beat joking tone he usually uses. “He’s your partner, you should have already been there when he arrived but you’re here. With me.” He crosses his arms over his chest and only Phil grabbing him by the arm and hauling him to where the suit is kept gets him to move. “It’s shocking to hear me say this, even to me—”

“Then don’t.” Phil snips.

“—but you need to deal with your shit.” Phil snorts at him. “Yeah, I know, like I’m one to talk. But you know, I talk a _lot_. Maybe not always about what’s important but, hey, I’m working on it. You bury it and get even less verbal. You shut the hell down and no one can get a read on you.” He yanks his arm from Phil’s grip and walks fast enough to pass him. “Clint can see that you’re growing apart, and you two _were_ one of the best partnerships SHIELD has. Don’t fuck up everyone’s chance for survival just because you don’t have the balls to talk out your feelings.”

The door beside them opens and Natasha, already geared up, joins them in stride. “I’ll drive.” Her tone leaves no space for debate. It seems that Phil’s just pissing off everyone around him at this post.

“I’ll pass, beautiful.” Tony grins as he reaches out behind him as they enter the garage. His suit flies to him and starts to build itself over his frame. “I’ve got my own.” He departs and that leaves Phil to deal with Natasha. At least Thor is in the passenger seat, waiting for them. The blond giant tends to cut through awkwardness in any situation just by being there.

Phil quietly slips into the back and tries to shove his conversation with Tony onto a backburner. For now, he needs to concentrate on their destination and the unfolding situation. Luckily, Tony reports in as soon as he arrives, feeding data via JARVIS to everyone else on the team.

* * *

As far as days go, Clint would like to say that he’s had worse. Would like to. But it’s turning out to be a pretty rotten one. First of all, Coulson should have been here with him because like it or not, the man was his partner. He’d switched off with Sitwell for some reason. It’s not that Clint doesn’t like or trust Sitwell, because he does, but he isn’t Phil. He isn’t the man who anticipates his movements and thought processes and knows where to step when they’re both fighting and the world is going to shit around them.

The smoke bombs hadn’t been the prank that so many had been desperately hoping for. Instead of anything remotely prankish, it was a cover so that HYDRA could pump the cloudy area with as maybe rounds as possible to slaughter the civilians. And, of course, Clint was right in the middle of it.

“Barton, 35 degrees North, 12 feet up.” Sitwell had eyes outside the smoke and as long as he could be exact enough, Clint could shoot near blind and hit his targets. The archer would like to say that he’s surprised at how well they work together except for the fact that Sitwell was trained almost exclusively by Coulson, which means he's second best to knowing how to work with Clint.

Clint releases his hold on the string and feels the bow heat slightly under his grip just before it pulses. The smoke burns away from his shot a little, letting him see the target be hit a millisecond before the man falls off his perch. “Next?” Clint prompts, and Sitwell answers. Soon enough he doesn’t even have to do that. He simply aims blind and shoots. He can see where the shots have come from through the thick smoke and calculates the trajectories versus where he stands almost automatically. He’s never been this fast at the calculations before, but maybe it’s just a result of him doing this for years.

His stomach roils with the thick and cloying scent of blood and cooked flesh in the air. He turns to take a shot and trips over a body, slips in some congealing blood. But it’s lucky that he did because a shot lands behind him where his stomach had been seconds ago. He still feels like he wants to throw up. He chokes it down instead.

The smoke is clearing with the help of his shooting, but he’s still at a disadvantage. He has to keep moving or let his position be discovered, but tripping over dead civilians is making this harder than it needs to be. Plus, there’s at least fifty of them and only one of him. Sitwell has to stay out of the picture and be his eyes, he can’t shoot anyone and risk revealing his position. Clint will have to wait for backup.

Backup has, as always, really good timing. So good that Clint might have let a tear of joy escape. It could be the smoke. He has his sleeves of his tee shirt ripped off and pulled down over his head to cover his nose and mouth to maybe clean the air he’s sucking in. Maybe. He wants to shout at the reinforcements and get someone to his side to help with this bullshit, but he knows that calling attention to his position is the stupidest thing he could do right now.

“Thor’s coming in,” Sitwell just barely manages to warn before the giant’s thudding steps threaten to overwhelm Clint. Thor, however, doesn’t run him over like he’d thought. He skids to a stop next to Clint, a proper mask over his lower face to filter out the smoke and burning ozone scent of the plasma rounds eating the ground around them. 

“Hey Thor,” Clint grins, glad to not be alone in this mess. The stream of bullets had died down with the lack of screaming. It seems as though they don’t want to waste ammo now that their pray-and-spray is over. “Think you can clear out this bull shit?” He waves a hand around him to swipe at the smoke. Thor just grins wide enough to make the mask twitch and his eyes crinkle at the corners. He holds up his hammer. He swings it around by the leather strap at the end and just when it’s starting to blur he tosses it up and catches it by the grip.

A blue-white glow flares up from his right wrist and bleeds through the tattoos on his arm to cross over his shoulders and down the other arm. The lighting casts odd shadows over Thor’s face that would unsettle most but Clint’s used to it by now. Thor sneers at the fog around them, anticipating their adversaries beyond and with a raised fist, he strikes out with the charge in his tattooed arms.

The electricity tingles through Clint’s limbs and he almost laughs because it tickles him. Now is not the time to be laughing, however. Clint draws his bow, ready to attack the closest target or the one that poses the greatest threat to them. The fog shivers around them and dissipates faster, allowing Clint to witness the carnage and pick out newly arrived friends from foe. He can also navigate around bodies and molten tar patches a lot better.

Thor charges forward with a warcry at the nearest assailant and Clint covers him, spinning and drawing his bow. Sitwell is calling out targets still, but now that Clint can see, he’s hitting them as Sitwell speaks. He needs Coulson on the comm with him, not Sitwell. “Where the fuck is Coulson?” Clint growls after the fifth shot he beats Sitwell to.

“Organizing the civilian rescues.” Clint had seen, out of the corner of his eye, the other partnerships working, one carrying and the other covering as they evacuate those civilians who are still living and might have a chance if they get medical attention.

With a low growl, he adjusts his sights on those targeting the retreating pairs. Thor can handle the brute force with Rhodey and Tony (now that they’ve flown overhead to join the fray). Clint’s faster because he’s not moving too much. He ignores Sitwell’s next direction as the hair on the back of his neck raises. He spins toward to Natasha and everything filters through as slow motion. He screams, “Nat, down!” and swings his bow up to shoot at the man who aims at her. At the very last second, he changes his aim and shoots in front of the man instead. He makes an impossible shot and his energy blast connects with the plasma round.

The round explodes and a pulse rocks through them all. It hits Clint in the chest and he grunts as his air is knocked out of him. He stumbles and his knees try to buckle under him. He grits his teeth and fights it off. It’s hard to catch his balance with his ears ringing but he just manages it. His bow hand presses into his knee as he half-stands, bent over.

“Clint!” He jerks his head up and looks toward the voice, shocked. It’s… _Coulson_ is running toward him, worry on his face. Shouldn’t he be covering the evacuation? Clint stares and can’t bring himself to move other than to slowly right himself. He’s about to yell at Phil to go back when he feels the same uneasiness as when Natasha was being targeted. He turns and… no…

The same man is aiming, and this time it’s at Phil. Clint can only see the tip of his gun, the man himself is hidden behind a wall, but he knows it's the same person. He swears because the man's cover is a reinforced wall that he could never shoot through. He swings his bow over his shoulder and charges at Phil. It’s the only option. He would never consider a life without Phil, and he’s far more expendable than his partner when he looks at the bigger picture.

Gunshots follow him as he runs as hard as he can. One gets lucky and plows through his shoulder. He turns with the force of it but continues running at Phil. He watches the man’s face drain of color but he doesn’t stop running at him and, fuck, they are both huge idiots but there is no cover to be had except near the middle space between them. It’s safest there so Clint doesn’t stop.

The next round tears into his calf and he grits his teeth so hard he feels a molar crack. He doesn’t slow his pace and he can’t believe he’s so lucky that Phil hasn’t been gunned down in front of him. Relief swamps him when Phil reaches the cover and he’s only fifty yards away from him. He’s going to grab that stupid man and hug him as hard as he fucking can.

Half a breath later and white-hot pain sears through his right lung. He convulses and reaches for the spot as he stumbles and drops to his knees. The impact jars him, but not as much as the extra gush of blood from the hole in his chest. He can smell cooking flesh from the plasma round and touching his wound burns his hands. He slumps but somehow manages to stay upright. As a matter of fact, he can’t move enough to flop over and make himself less of a target. Raising his gaze to meet Phil’s takes years, or so it seems, and the pure terror on his face moves the last few tumblers in his mind…

 _He’s done this before._ His eyes widen marginally and through this realization, Phil darts out to scoop him up as best he can and drag him to cover. Being moved hurts so much he almost passes out. The tight grip around his shoulders and on his hip are enough to jerk him back up wakefulness.

“Barton!” Phil barks. His voice sounds funny and when Clint can focus and see his face properly, it’s wet with tears. “ _Clint_. Stay with me.” Each blink takes a little longer. “I can’t, I _can’t_ lose you again, you have to stay with me, Clint.” The ragged breath Coulson draws shakes through Clint. “Please, hold on. Med evac is coming. You’re… you’re going to be fine.”

Memories flood through Clint and they are the last thing he wants to see if this is his life flashing before his eyes. Oh, oh god, he’s died before. This is almost exactly like last time and now he’s dying _again_. What shitty luck. “I…” His mouth is barely responsive, his words slow. “I’m an LMD?” He asks, his voice flat. There is no fear while he awaits a confirmation that he’d died. That he’d been reawoken in another body, a Life Model Decoy’s body.

To be terrifyingly honest with himself, it does explain a few things. He hasn’t been sleeping much over the recommended seven hours, when usually he’d sleep in as long as he could. He just had too much energy. The faster reaction times and quicker calculations that he’d assumed were just from years of repetition… well, he shouldn’t have suddenly gotten that much better that he’d notice it overnight. And it also explains why the EMP grenade knocked him out and why Tony was there when he woke. More little things, like the sharpness of his senses and how people who didn’t know him as well Before reacted to him now. He should have known, should have figured it out sooner. He knew he’d signed up for the LMD program in case... in case _this_ happened.

Coulson presses his forehead to Clint’s and holds him a little tighter, nodding. Their noses bump against each other and it’s one of the nicest feelings he’s experiencing right now. “I’m so sorry,” it spills out of him like he couldn’t hold it back if he tried. “You.. god, Clint, you’re a glitch. You weren’t supposed to be so… _you_ , but you are. You are and I’m so blessed because I’d lost you and now I haven’t.” He tenses. Right, Clint’s doing the whole dying thing again. He nudges Phil’s nose with his own in hopes to urge him into talking a little more.

“Don’t you dare die.” Is what Phil ends up saying. Clint chokes and chuckles brokenly. Breathing makes the fire in his chest blaze so hard that he swears he’s going to melt into the dirt. Something cool drops onto his cheek and when he drags his eyes open again, Phil is crying. “Don’t you fucking dare. Tony couldn’t even figure this glitch out. You’re one of a kind and if you go now I might not get you back.”

“‘m tryin’.” Clint whispers raggedly. His mind is swimming. Frankly, he’s lucky he can hear and understand Phil talking. But maybe that’s the whole LMD thing. Who knows, he might be able to hear with one hundred percent clarity up unto his death.

“Try harder,” a sob escapes to punctuate Phil’s words. Clint relaxes into his arms and keeps his eyes open and locked onto Phil’s face. “They’re coming, okay? They’re coming and we’re going to save you.”

“‘gain…”

“Yes, again. You need to stop doing this to us, Barton.” For once Clint doesn’t hate his last name because it’s said with so much emotion and it is the best thing ever right now.

“Y’know…” Phil shushes him but like hell he’ll listen because the world is doing the scary blurry-greying thing like last time. He needs better last words if this is going to be it. “Love you.” There. That was perfect.

The trembling kiss as darkness swallows him is pretty perfect too.

* * *

Coulson’s waiting by Clint’s bedside when he finally wakes up. His body isn’t responding correctly in places, but it’s to be expected when you get shot. From the lack of feeling he can tell where the bullet went in. He prefers it to the alternative, feeling where he was shot. Someone (Tony) must have tinkered and shut off his pain receptors for the time being. It unsettles him and he’s going to ask for it to be changed as soon as he can.

“Hey,” his voice is barely loud enough to hear, but Coulson manages to anyway. His forearm is lightly squeezed and hey, at least he can feel that. Small blessings. Well, maybe. After how Coulson’s treated him he’s not so sure anymore. He looks down at his partner’s hand and back up to his face. The older man tenses and Clint almost rolls his eyes. He can just imagine the emotional bullshit he’s about to go through.

Because Coulson had distanced himself. He had. And then Clint was shot and suddenly he was Phil again and telling Clint he couldn’t die, that Phil couldn’t lose him again. What a fucking load of crap. At least, it would be if the man next to him is Coulson again and about to reject and deny what he’d said before.

“Phil…?” He asks, risking showing his vulnerable side. There is a distinct difference between “Phil” and “Coulson” and they both know it. What Phil addresses him with will determine how this conversation goes.

It’s very subtle but emotions play over the older man’s face and Clint keeps completely still. He almost laughs when his mind likens it to trying not to spook a frightened animal. He can wait Phil out if he has to, he’s waited out targets plenty of times before. There isn’t much more important than this for him. He needs a proper answer before he gets whiplash from how Phil’s been treating him.

Phil opens his mouth. Closes it. His gaze cuts away from Clint’s for a few seconds and then he drags his eyes back. He inhales slowly and finally he speaks. “Clint.”

Clint relaxes but Phil only seems to grow tenser. Leaning back into his nest of pillows, Clint lets a little hope creep into his voice. If they’re truly back to first names then Clint is confident that this is going to end well. Phil had ordered him to live—again—and he had. They were finally going to have their chance and Clint… Well, he wants to say he was dying for the chance but that hits a little too close to home. “Phil.” He can even hear the happiness in his voice.

Phil’s face falls a little more and Clint starts to feel wary. He watches as his partner’s eyebrows wrinkle together in poorly hidden regret and sorrow. “I can’t…” Phil chokes as his throat convulses. He swallows rapidly a few times, his words halted for a minute. He forces a breath before beginning again. “I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this. You’re… you’re not _him_.” His voice is shaking and Clint doesn’t care what Coulson’s feeling because he’s trembling with a mix of fury and heartbreak. And Coulson, he looks at him like he shouldn’t be because he’s a Life Model Decoy and not… not “Clint”. “You’re not Clint.” Confirmed thought process, then. “I lost… Clint’s dead.”

Clint jerks as the words cut him and fuck, this hurts more than getting shot. Both times, now that the memories of his first death has come back to him. And damn, that’s a real kick in the circuits. “Fuck you.” He whispers. His teeth grit together and his fingers curl into his palms. His knuckles creak. “How _fucking_ dare—” He bites back the abuse he can almost feel crawling up his throat. “You fucking _coward_. I don’t care what kind of body I have. I look human, don’t I? I have fucking organic systems, I’m human enough. I am _Clint_. I’m the only Clint you’re ever going to get. Goddamnit, you already lost your first chance.” His voice cracks and ends in an embarrassing high note.

Phil’s form blurs from the tears welling up in his eyes. It’s humiliating that he’s crying right now. If he’s just a stupid robot, then how can he feel this way? “I…” his voice shakes too much and he stops. He watches Coulson and takes in every closed off bit of body language. He could swear he’s dying for a third time. “You almost lost your _second_. And fuck you if you think you’re going to get a third.”

He almost feels a sick satisfaction at the other man’s full-body flinch. “Me being me is a fluke. JARVIS told me.” He loses his voice because now that he’s said it, it’s more real. He died. Is dead. And being here right now is a super-fluke. Some higher power out there really wanted him to suffer because right now he’s pretty sure he’d rather be dead than to deal with all the shit Coulson is putting him through.

“You’re fucking _lucky_ to get another chance like this. _We could be happy_.” He can hear the agony in his own voice and with his next blink, tears begin to fall. “Why are you wasting this? This gift?” His stops himself before he does something humiliating, like have his voice crack. It takes several swallows before he has his voice back. “Do you not want me?”

“You’re… not him.” If he wasn’t so busy getting his heart broken, he might have heard the desolation in the man’s voice.

“You… you fucking hypocrite!” Clint spits, remembering what Phil had said. When they thought he was dying again, Phil had said he couldn’t lose him again and… Clint’s hand snaps out and he grabs and throws the glass on his bedside table at Phil. It shatters on the wall, half a hand’s breadth from Phil’s head. “Get. Out.” He collapses back onto his pillows, his hands shaking as he brings them up to his face. The soft click of the door shutting behind Phil feels like bullet to the chest.

* * *

Phil feels numb. It’s been almost a week since Clint ripped him a new one and kicked him out of his hospital room. He knew without trying that his security pass wouldn’t allow him to where Clint is being kept in the hospital. It had been apparent in Natasha’s furious glare and cold shoulder. She had, for Clint’s protection, gotten him locked out of the room, possibly even the corridor or entire wing. He knows how protective she is of him. She, out of their whole team, had gotten worse ever since he died and was replaced.

He’s not sure what hurts the most. Clint completely locking him out, Natasha’s fury and ignoring him, or Fury’s threat to reassign him somewhere far away. Permanently. The rest of the team had said similar things, but by then he had become numb to their words. The last person to say anything is Thor.

“Son of Coul.” Thor’s voice is low and somber. It is not the norm for the large Norseman and forces Phil out of his funk to look up at him. “We must talk.” Those three words are enough to raise the dread in his stomach, but for some reason it’s worse when it comes from this gentle giant. Phil just nods and let himself be led to a quiet corner that has a few chairs for them to sit in.

“As you well know, my blood-kin and my friend-kin are not of this land. They are on another continent and the world has changed to make cross-sea travel impossible.” Phil nods. He’d known of the lack of traveling abilities. Otherwise, why would he and the team drive all the way to western Mexico? What he hadn’t known, however, was that Thor had much to go by for family. Most people these days who weren’t currently with said family, didn’t have any relative to speak of. He wonders how and why Thor came to what was left of the Americas.

“I have not seen them since I were but a teenaged boy. I know not if they live in this tormented world. But…” he pauses and looks meaningfully at Phil. “Had I the chance to see them again, or to at least know of their wellbeing, there is no force in existence that would keep us apart.”

It’s clear that Thor is talking about his situation with Clint and with a sharp pang of guilt and regret, he knows that the blond man is right. “I’m…”

“Being wasteful.” Thor chides. “In a world where we cannot afford to waste anything.” Sad blue eyes bore into Phil. “I know not of my family’s survival. Do they fight? Do they breathe? No answers come for me and I must bear this burden until we win and we have been fighting for nearly a decade already.” Phil doesn’t break the gaze, although it’s so heavy he feels it might drive him to his knees. “You, Son of Coul, can see him. You can _touch_ him, and yet you deny your heart and his, thinking that just because he’s not what he once was means that he is no longer himself.”

Phil wants to protest but at this point he knows that there isn’t a point. Anything he says will just be excuses on top of excuses and he’s done lying to cover up his faults.

“Life Model Decoys are truly modeled after life, Son of Coul. They breathe, they bleed, they wither and age and die. But your Hawk? He is more than that. He _lives_. He lives and feels and can be hurt and is hurt in more than just the physicality of his new form.” Thor straightens his posture and the way he looks down at Phil makes the smaller man tense. “He was right when he said that you are wasting your chances.”

The weight of Thor’s gaze makes Phil’s shoulders slump, his spine hunch. He wants to shrink down and out of sight to just get away while he still can. At a loss for words, Phil swallows. His throat is dry enough that it hurts.

Thor smiles just so, but it is devoid of mirth. “Be careful, Son of Coul, or others who look upon your life might start to think you conceited. For what else could you be to them; a man who values so little what has been given to him now thrice?” His words dig into Phil like thorns and refuse to let go. “If you refused him properly because you held no feelings for him, we would understand. But you haven’t and we all know it is because you feel for him too. It’s always been so clear to us and we wish it had been clearer for you both.”

Phil stares at the floor and nods slowly.

“I will let you sit with your thoughts. They are heavy enough company without me.” The large man leaves far more quietly than is expected of him. Phil doesn’t realize he’s alone until he looks at the empty chair across from him.

Slouching lower in his seat, Phil closes his eyes and starts to list every single pro and con he can think of. It’s about time that the matter of Clint gets his full attention.

* * *

Somehow, Thor must have known that it was going to take a few hours after their talk for him to get up the courage to visit Clint. He is pushing the doors to the ward open as Phil approaches. He holds the door open for Phil and places a heavy hand on the smaller man’s shoulder before he can pass. “Remember what we discussed, Son of Coul.” His tone is grave and he tightens his grip slightly. It could be a threat, but Phil is hoping that it was just rough encouragement.

Either way, he nods solemnly to Thor and it seems to be good enough because he is released with a low murmur of the room number. His heart leaps up into his throat and he looks for the right number. He stands before the correct room and it’s too soon and yet not soon enough for him. He grinds to a halt and waits, his hand raised to knock. He takes a few calming breaths before finally knocking.

“H’lo,” Clint calls out, his voice rough. Had he been sleeping?

Phil opens the door and steps inside haltingly. He can feel how jerky his movements are and Clint tenses—whether from seeing him or from seeing how off he is, he can’t be sure. “Hey,” his voice almost cracks. He knows he’s unwelcome, but when he lifts his gaze to Clint he just sees a heartbroken resignation that makes his chest ache. “I… I talked to Thor.”

Clint’s posture is still very stiff as he sits back against the pillows. He’s recovering faster than when he had first been transferred to his LMD body, but that was because more of the stress on the body had been because of the new consciousness, and not simply healing. The archer says nothing and Phil takes it as a “go on…”.

“To be more exact, he talked to me. Talked sense into me.” Phil steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. He doesn’t move closer, not yet. He has to take this slowly. It’s a delicate situation after he’s spent so much time breaking things between them. “And I’ve come to the conclusion that… that you were right. It’s taken me longer than I should.”

Clint raises an eyebrow, wrinkling the tape on his forehead that held a cut together. He gingerly crosses his arms over his chest and gives Phil a look that clearly said “it took you long enough”. All the silence is making Phil really wish he’d say something.

“You were right,” Phil reiterates as he pushes himself forward. “I was wasting a chance that no one gets. I would only be lying to myself if I said the glitch is something repeatable, especially seeing as we’ve yet to figure out how it happened in the first place.” He watches Clint’s face and he seems to have relaxed somewhat. He hazards a step closer to the bed.

“I don’t want to waste my third chance.” Phil can feel a tremor racing through his frame and it doesn’t go away. It actually gets worse as the guarded expression slips from Clint’s face. It’s still very wary and hope has yet to return but Phil isn’t done yet. “I was… am…” Phil bites his tongue and cuts his gaze away as he straightens his words out in his head. He takes a careful breath. “I was in love with my first partner, Clint Barton the human.” Clint flinches as if hit and looks vulnerable. He drops his eyes from Phil's gaze. “And I am falling for my second partner, Clint Barton the LMD.”

An easiness steals into the way Clint holds himself and Phil finally allows himself to cross the room. His steps are stilted and jerky, like he’s not completely sure on so many things that it’s bleeding into his movements. He can see his hand shake as he reaches out and cups Clint's jaw. “It’s going to take some time.” He confesses softly as he comes to stand by the bed.

In love with a machine, isn’t this what they’ve all been warned about? “LMDs don’t feel,” they said. “They can never truly love you,” they said. “They’re only leftover memories and projections of feelings robots could never understand,” they said. It’s been drilled into them all. To keep them safe, and sane, and keeping heartbreak at bay, and letting those who need to mourn to mourn properly. But… “They” do not know Clint. “They” don’t know that he is an exception to all this. At least, Phil desperately hopes so.

It's going to take time to get used to the idea that Clint is still the same person inside that machine and to rid himself of the notion that Clint is somehow less human because he had a different body. But he will get there in the end. “Because my brain and my heart are fighting over what and who is right. It’s not all going to be sunshine and roses, but…”

"But we're going somewhere?" Clint asks, hesitant as he finally speaks. The corner of Phil's mouth quirks up just so and Clint responds by leaning his head into Phil's hand.

"Yeah," Phil clears his throat a little and nods. Clint slips his fingers between those of his free hand and a slow, earnest smile crosses both of their faces. "Yeah, I think we are."


End file.
